The Last Day of Summer
by Remington Rand
Summary: She reads his face and she finally understands why he always seems to return to her after late nights. The next time she wakes to the sound of screaming. Dasey/Eventual Violate. Rated for sexual content and violence. AU/Crossover.
1. The Last Day of Summer

He awakes to the sound of a faint buzzing invading his head. As he comes to, his surroundings slowly coming into focus, he recognizes the faint outline of shelves, various tools hung alongside the walls. It's too dark to make out what kind, but the buzzing persists.

His tongue is heavy with the taste of bile and alcohol, forcing his lips into a contortion of distaste. Flashes of images flitter in his mind, images of skimpily-clad girls and hollering boys, enmeshed in the strange freedom only teenage rebellion affords.

He sees himself grab drink after drink, encouraged by his free-spirited peers. He watches as his legs stumble past a tangle of bushes, the faint thrumming of music in the background. A shed door opens, his body propels forward, crashing hard into the floor below, the smell of wood and dust and mildew surrounding him.

_Where am I? _He wonders briefly, and then the image of Casey with her neat color-coded boxes remind him.

_His _shed. Just a few feet away was the entrance to the large Victorian-style house that the McDonald-Venturi clan found themselves claiming.

They called it home; Derek did not. Home was the place where Marti took her first steps and Edwin learned how to ride a bike.

Vaguely, he is aware that Lizzie and Nora made home, _home _to him too, remembering the father-daughter dance Lizzie and George had shared, the way Nora had taken to mothering him even when he regarded her with the moodiness of a fifteen-year-old who didn't want things changing.

Casey, too. From all their fights to the way she found some way to push her way into his life, the way she found herself bailing him out of trouble and the way he managed to get _her _into trouble because what teenager didn't.

The thoughts were pushed away by a clanging in his skull, pain shooting through his body as he rose to his feet. Stumbling over something he didn't bother to inspect, he makes his way out of the shed and finds the sunrise peeking at him through the door.

_Helluva party, _he thought, pushing past the heaviness in his feet and the tangle of the grass beneath them. The door seems much farther than before, but he manages without stopping to dry-heave.

Managing to enter the house without making too much noise, finding the large sitting-room before him empty, no sounds coming from the kitchen to his left. Removing his shoes before making his way up the large, winding staircase, Derek thought he might get away with his sneaking out.

And then the sound of a loud, shrill crying interrupted the silence. _Fuck, _he thought at the top of the stairs, knowing he had about ten seconds to find some way to get out of sight, and his room was too far away.

So he scrambled into the nearest doorway, ignoring the whimsical letters spelling C-a-s-e-y, letting the dark shroud him when he closed the door.

The crying continued until he heard Nora make her way into the room to attend to her infant son, the ultimate symbolization of _family, _making Casey and him not so much _step_ siblings anymore, linked together forever by the blood of their brother, and he grimaced.

A form rose from the bed beside him, squinting at him. Hands fished around for the lamp beside her, the light pushing the shadows away, revealing his haggard appearance.

Casey's eyes widened, and then settled into a stare of disapproval, her lips turning down as she muttered, "You went to that party, didn't you? Even though George said—"

"Case," he said wearily, "Please save the lecture for later, and just...let me wait here, okay?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're the one who broke the rules," she snapped, huffing, "you _should _get in trouble."

Of course she did, he thought, because Casey was little miss perfect wasn't she? Embracing _their _(the word gets stuck in his head, makes him ill) little brother with pride, showing Marti how to hold him, dutifully picking up everything Nora taught her so she could babysit and Derek isn't sure how she can do it, how she can look at him without realizing the implications.

But then again, she never really did look at him anymore, or fight with him, or give into that electric pull that always seemed to ignite when he pissed her off.

So he started finding ways to force her eyes to meet his, to force her to stay in his presence, keep her from running from the _thing _that seemed to be between them.

"George meant what he said, Derek," she reminded him, eyes boring into his, revealing the airiness of her tone with an edge of (concern_anger_bitterness_betrayal_), "Do you want to leave that much?"

He shut his eyes, aware of the headache still throbbing, the fatigue running through his legs and arms and back and neck and eyes, burning. Slumping onto the foot of her bed, the light dancing on the edges of his lips and his eyelashes, he feels her stare and isn't sure what it means but he doesn't care.

Of course he doesn't. He doesn't want to leave _her. _Is that what she means?

He feels the question rise up in his throat, his heart beating faster now, his head turning to look at her, and she's still just looking at him, abandoning all opportunities to shriek and bitch and insult which is so _not _Casey and he just doesn't know how to respond to that.

Her attention was all he wanted, and he finally succeeded after stumbling in smelling like god-knows-what and it's a bitter, bitter victory because he's spent (_what feels like ages and ages but it's really only been the longest three months of his life a summer he can barely remember he's sure it's been a long time) _carving out this persona of devil-may-care, sarcastic, too-cocky-for-his-own-good, selfish Derek.

"Well, I live to annoy you," he says finally, pasting on a smirk, "I couldn't do that if I was at boarding school."

The tone he says it in is all wrong, it's not rough and sarcastic and accompanied with an insulting (_pet name_) nickname, it's soft and broken and he knows, he knows she sees it, and somehow she's closer, her face near his, his hand tangled in her hair.

The panic is rising now because _fuck _what is he doing—

And Casey, by all accounts should be shoving him away, glaring at him, uttering words of disgust, eyes glittering like ice with every syllable but she doesn't.

She reads his face, ignoring the faint smell of cigarettes and musk that could only be attributed to spending all night out amongst other bodies (_girls_) and yet he still returned to _her _and she finally understands why.

His lips part like he's about to say something and she doesn't let him, putting her free hand against the nape of her neck, fingers curling into his mussed hair like the way his own are tangled in hers and she pulls him closer, aware that the kiss is bitter and tastes like sleep and alcohol and cigarettes—

—and he doesn't care, letting out a strangled little whimper, and she isn't sure what that means until he runs one hand up roughly beneath the thin tank top he's wearing; she parts from him briefly to tug at his jacket, and he discards it on the floor, her nimble hands depositing his shirt alongside it—

This is dangerous, so, so dangerous, they're well aware, with Nora one room away but stopping doesn't seem like an option because there is no going back now.

_It isn't the first time she's kissed him either but neither of them mention that._

She's maneuvered herself from under the sheets now, bare legs locking around his waist, the fabric of his jeans a _fucking _painful barrier with her against him like this and she rocks forward, pushing him onto his back, moving her lips down lower and lower, nipping at his neck, scattering kisses down his chest and part of him is afraid she'll pull back from him before she goes too far, some sense of reality clashing with the heaviness and need_want_ encircling them, but she just pulls his jeans and boxers down roughly and he has to bite into a clenched fist to muffle the sound that pushes past his lips—

She hears him say her name, a long, strained whisper, broken into two syllables, _Ca-sey _and she thinks he needs to say that more often so she keeps doing whatever it is with her tongue that he appears to like, pausing just to hear him say _Ca-sey _again and his hand is tangled in hers, squeezing so tightly it should hurt but it doesn't because she's too lost, too busy avoiding the fact that her _mouth is making him do that and shit this is her step brother and it's the last day of summer before school starts what will tomorrow mean what—_

_What the hell is she doing here?_

But Casey can't finish that train of thought because that strangled whimper leaves his mouth again and his hand relaxes and his breathing hard, his stomach dipping, rising, dipping, rising, and for a moment she wonders if he's the one freaking out now but no, he pulls her up, forward, against him.

The heat of their skin almost unbearable in the heat (_and she can't remember who took off her shirt or when but it doesn't really matter because he feels too good) _Derek kisses her again, hard, before rolling her over and she realizes he's mimicking her moves now, watching the way she arches when he nips at her shoulder so he does it again, harder, tongue swiping to soothe the dull burn, and it's all he does for a few moments until she lets out, _Der-ek _and that makes him feel…something he can't quite name but it feels hot and frantic.

He moves his lips lower, his hands discarding her underwear quickly before returning again to make her writhe and he kisses her to keep her quiet.

And when he _finally _puts his tongue and his mouth where she wants it, he finds he has to try a few different things before she says his name _like that again _and when she does he finds himself certain he won't stop until she relaxes beneath him, breathing hard

When she does her whisper transforms into a brief, low, stifled cry, and he looks up to watch her eyes slowly come back into focus, her thoughts edging their way back into _real-life-this-is-wrong-topsy-turvy-land_, and he tries to stop them by kissing her again, one hand entwined in his firmly, tries to tell her what he can't put into words.

Though it doesn't quite work, the fear uncoiling in her stomach, she kisses him again, softly, squeezing his hand for good measure, aware of the goosebumps on her skin and she isn't sure if it's because she's cold or scared or both.

So he parts from her, nudging the blankets back, managing to tuck her in with an awkward turn of his shoulders, and he slips beneath them, letting her tangle her legs with his, letting his fingers fit between hers again.

The heaviness eventually ebbs away as sound permeates the quiet, the rest of the (_their_) family thumping down the stairs to breakfast and Nora and George and _Robbie._

Casey considers rising to dress and go downstairs when he falls asleep, but Derek curls around her tighter, as though he's afraid to let her go, so she stays, because _real-land-this-is-wrong-bad-wrong _is not at all appealing anyway.

And eventually, she lets go, drifting off, dreaming of nothing.

The next time she wakes to the sound of screaming and sirens and she turns to see her bed empty.

Her heart rattles against her chest as she's ripping the blankets off of her to rush to the window.

She sees George curled down to his knees, sees strangers in her yard and she knows, somehow, that it's Derek, that something is very very wrong—

and then she sees him beside his father.

It's something Derek had never seen before.

George is screaming and screaming and he won't stop, having fallen to his knees, that haunting, horrid wail escaping his throat, the tears staining his face and agony twisting his eyes up into something terrifying.

He tries to soothe him awkwardly, having hastily dressed in his boxers and his shirt (_he can't remember when or why or how)_. George doesn't seem to be aware, he doesn't seem to pay attention at all but the _why _slices into Derek like ice because he sees what his father is staring at.

He sees a curled up, ugly form in the shed, something that had slipped into rigor many hours before and it _just can't be him it can't be him it can't be him_

And then he sees men in uniforms picking him up and carting him away and he tries to push them back, push them away but they don't register it at all, just package him up neatly with stone-cold faces.

Derek tries to say,

_No, no, no it's not me I'm still here I'm still here_

but he can't.

-x-x-x-

_A/N: So if you've seen any of my other vids you'll know I'm a huge fan of American Horror Story, which is what gave me this idea. _

_If you liked this please review and thanks for reading!_

_-Remi_


	2. The Third Day of Summer

Though he had many reasons to hate it that all seemed to be linked to Casey, Derek's dislike for the house was instantaneous. He thought it was creepy, it felt impenetrable, and he had a hard time believing it was _the _house Nora gushed about when she first told them. George was more happy it at a steal of the price, but he brought the kids to get their opinions before accepting the final offer.

"You're joking," he said with a look of suspicion as he peered through the window, "Right?"

George stared at him in surprise, "Well," he said, "no, not at all. What's wrong with it?"

Casey shot him a dark look. "Yeah, what's wrong with _this _one? You've had something to say about every house so far, and you're usually just being a jerk. But this one is _perfect," _she turned to George, beaming, "Can we look?"

Her stepfather smiled, pleased _someone_ was excited, especially since Nora had stayed behind to rest. With the three youngest in tow, they disappeared into the front corridor.

Derek stepped out of the car, peering up at the window that must have belonged to one of the bedrooms, and thought he saw a girl looking down at him. He blinked and she was gone.

_Lizzie? _He thought, jogging to catch up.

"…is this going to be your office, George? It's _huge!" _he heard her say.

Lips settling into a frown, he decided Casey must be playing a prank. Taking the steps quietly in order to remain undetected, he spied a door, slightly ajar, in front of him. He went inside, looking around at the empty room, frowning at the apparent absence of the eldest McDonald.

He spied a chalkboard that had been removed from the wall and leaned against it, as though it was a project left undone.

Stepping over to the window, he gazed down to the spot he had been standing before, then looked around the room. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or something.

-x-x-x-

Violet watches the brunette with dancer's legs lean up against the boy standing at the window, mumbling throatily, "_Boo," _and he jumps a mile in the air before whirling around, trying to mask the startled look on his face with a haughtier one, but it doesn't quite work and the girl knows, judging by the smug smile on her face.

"So it was you," Derek grumbled, rolling his eyes at her laughter, "Standing up here?"

Casey looked confused, then shrugged.

"I have no idea. You're the one that decided to run off and sneak up here. George wanted to know where you were."

Moving to stand beside him, her shoulder gently brushing against his, her eyes followed the skyline out the window. It was a beautiful view, Casey thought, and decided she wanted this room.

He rolled his eyes. "Right, I'm sure that's what happened."

Casey let out a little noise of noncommittal acknowledgement, her eyes moving to the walls, "This one's mine, and you can't say otherwise."

Violet swallows hard. This is her room and Tate's room and some part of her has always felt oddly territorial about it, even quite some time after the fact (she doesn't want to know how long it's been).

Perhaps it is why she plays the role of the girl who howls like a banshee, the girl who commands, _get-the-_fuck-_out-of-here-I-will-tear-your-guts-out-before-you-before-you-can-blink _all through feral glares and shrill tones wearing the face of a decomposing girl wearing a silent scream who was hidden away like a secret until everything went straight to shit.

Funny, she thought dying would sort things out, sometimes. Not make things worse.

-x-x-x-

Seeing Casey and Derek peer down at him, George directed Casey to continue looking on the upper level and said, "Derek, basement,"

"_Great," _he muttered under his breath, and Casey shot him a smug look as if to ask if he was afraid. He glared at her and left her to search.

The basement door creaked when he opened it and he scowled. Of course the door would creak. It was that sort of house. Nothing to worry about. No, none at all.

"Smarti?" he called from the doorway, and pictured Casey's smug stare, forcing himself to go down a few steps, "Are you down here?"

He saw bright neon purple lights appear in the darkness and recognized them as Marti's sneakers. Taking off to follow her, she giggled when she stopped and twirled around, having led him to a room to the right of the stairs.

"Don't run off," Derek scolded lightly, lifting her up in his arms, and walking back toward the light, "What were you doing down there, anyway?"

She stared at him like it ought to have been obvious. "Making friends, Smerek."

"Oh." He managed uneasily, thinking he saw something in the corner of his eye, and ran up the steps.

"Found her!" Derek yelled out once he reached the top step and kicked the door closed, and he marched straight outside to the car and leaned against the hood, crossing his arms.

Casey joined him first, appearing considerably starry-eyed. She looked up at the window of the room she found him in. "We _have _to get this place."

He stared at her as though she'd grown a second head. "You actually think my dad and Nora are getting this house, Case? Even if I _wanted _to move into this freakshow—which I'm sure you feel right at home in—you're delusional. They can't possibly afford this."

She peered at him with a small, coy smile. "You're just mad I'm ahead by one point with the pranking when we haven't even move in yet."

A dry laugh escaped his throat. "Yeah, Case, because that was really a prank, sneaking up on someone,"

"It is when you make them believe in ghosts," she said, grinning, "I learned from the best, after all."

_Oh, _he thought to himself, his scowl deepening, _he was _so _getting her back for this._

That night, at dinner, George smiled his big-announcement-smile and said, "Well, we weren't entirely truthful. We put the offer down weeks ago and it was just accepted, so…we're moving!"

Everyone erupted into a loud cheer, hugging and shouting loudly about which room they wanted.

(_Marti requested the basement and Nora gave her an odd look, saying no._)

Derek could not look less thrilled.

-x-x-x-

Nora and George allowed all the kids to take the last week off at school to use for packing and sorting through their things to give away, given that they were moving in so close to her due date.

Derek should have been happy about this, but he wasn't.

One, it required actual physical effort, which was the absolute _worst _unless it was sex or hockey, and two, he saw no reason to help out since his veto on moving to begin with was so rudely ignored.

George threatened to ground him for the entire summer and that motivated him enough to do the bare minimum.

"Really, Derek," he sighed, shaking his head, "I thought you'd be happy. You don't all have to share one bathroom anymore and your room is more than suitable for your…" he looked around at the floor, which looked like a warzone, piles of clothes and magazines everywhere, "…things. I don't see what the problem is."

He let out a grunt and muttered, "I still have to share a bathroom with Spacey, I don't see how I'm getting a better deal here."

His father simply rolled his eyes, leaving him alone.

Edwin came in after, clearing having been eavesdropping, "He's right, you know. This is a dream come true."

For that, he got shoved out the door.

-x-x-x-

The McDonald-Venturi family appear to be a source of entertainment for many in the house. They don't appear to be aware of their audience and at the moment, no one seems to decide to inform them of the fact that they do.

Chad leans against the stair bannister and watches as a shirtless boy enters the house with a stack of boxes precariously wobbling atop one another, all labeled _Fragile _in feminine handwriting. He has reddish brown hair and devilish hazel eyes and the sinewy build of someone who played sports.

_Swim team? _He thought hopefully, though the later revealing of hockey gear dashes his hopes in this regard.

"_De-rek!" _A brunette girl screeches, about the same age, "Those are marked fragile for a reason!"

Patrick winces. "_She's _got a set of lungs on her," he mutters as Chad jumps, startled by his appearance. He doesn't appear to notice, settling in beside him to watch the show.

The boy sets the boxes down carefully in the sitting room and turns to her, arms crossed. "I'm helping, and contrary to what the voices in your head tell you, yelling at everyone like a drill sergeant isn't. Aren't you supposed to be helping Marti and Nora make lunch for everyone?"

_Another Nora? _Patrick thinks, _this will get confusing. _

The girl appears momentarily stunned, and Chad thinks it has nothing to do with the words that came out of his mouth, if her tense pose and roving stare is any indication.

The girl rolled her eyes. "It's almost ready, you disgusting cad. And put a shirt on, you'll get sweat everywhere." She wrinkles her nose.

Derek closes in, yet again forgetting the meaning of personal space, and smiles charmingly, putting an arm around her. Germaphobe Casey is easy to mess with.

She squeals and jumps away, screeching, _"De-rek! Gross!"_

"Casey!" A woman's voice interjects, "Leave your brother—"

"_Step_brother," both teens cut in.

Chad and Patrick glance at each other with the glee of twelve-year-old girls, clearly sharing the same thought. _They have to be fucking._

A momentary sigh of exasperation, then: "Help Marti bring the food out. Can't we have one day without you two fighting?"

Moira is watching from the kitchen. She regards the woman's swollen belly with a faint sense of alarm, wondering how safe it was for her to be here.

Marti hums a song under her breath as she slaps pieces of bread together, and catches the fire-red hair in the corner of her eye. She turns, displaying a grin, and just says, "Your hair is pretty. What's your name?"

She is not used to children, at least not children like Marti who treat her like any other living person, and it catches her off-guard.

She crouches down, unable to stop herself from brushing off the crumbs of the girl's purple shirt with a cat on it. "Moira," says the ghost, wondering why she doesn't seem to be alarmed by her presence.

"Moira," Marti repeats experimentally, rolling the name with her tongue, as though she was deciding if she liked it or not.

"Do you live here too?" she asks finally, and Moira's lips set in a firm line.

"Yes. Who have you met?" she queries, thinking it must not have been Hayden or Ben, or any of the ghosts that spend most of their time in the basement.

Before the girl can answer, Moira sees her mother staring straight in her direction and she stands, ready to give out her spiel of being the help, but the chance to deliver it never arrives as Nora ushers Marti out of the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches.

Blinking a few times, she realizes her presence hadn't registered in the woman's line of sight at all.

The ghost frowns. This has never happened before.

-x-x-x-

Striking fear into the new tenants' hearts should not be a difficult feat, but it proves to be one. Knocking over the tower of boxes marked _fragile _in plain view, with every member of the family sitting crosslegged on the floor, only startled them momentarily before the eldest girl grew smug and blamed the boy sitting across from her, her tone seeped with the context of _I-told-you-so._

He simply rolled his eyes and the father checked the items to find them mostly unharmed.

When all the boxes had been moved in and every member of the house sans Nora (who George was ensuring she followed her doctor's orders to take it easy) was busy unpacking, the house was alive, the spirits' curiosity having grown when making the same discovery Moira did, finding their blindness a perplexing mystery.

"Maybe it'll just take a few days," Vivien suggested when joining Moira in the kitchen, "God knows I wasn't as observant as I could have been."

Moira does not dispute this fact and it shows on her face.

"The youngest sees us," she pointed out, "Marti. But that's not out of the ordinary. Children and animals are more adept when it comes to matters of perceiving the supernatural." Then she sighed. "There's going to be another baby in this house very soon, from the looks of it."

Vivien grew stone-faced. She knew what Moira was concerned about. "The house has a baby, too," she murmured softly.

Moira was not convinced that certain spirits in the house wouldn't try anything, however.

"We have to protect those that cannot protect themselves," she said, meeting Vivien's distant stare, bringing her back to reality, "It's only right, after…after all that's happened."

The woman forced a smile, worry creasing around her eyes, and place a hand on her arm to squeeze it affirmatively. "Of course. I'll talk to Ben and Violet. Chad and Patrick might help, too."

Moira bowed her head in a gesture of thanks and watched her leave.

She turned to the doorway that led to the dining room and sighed. "Come out, now."

"I want to help," Tate said, and the woman wasn't surprised.

"You can't help. We have enough for every family member—"

"You need as much help as you can get and you know it. Just…just put Violet and Ben and Vivien on the upper floor, they won't have to see me."

"I don't know if you recall, but Patrick and Chad wouldn't hesitate to put a knife through your chest either." Moira stated bluntly.

"They don't have to see me either." He said, his eyes looking wide and child-like.

The older woman just stared at him for a long moment. "You're the other ghost she met, aren't you?"

"She conned me into wearing a feather boa." Tate answered, "Talks a mile a minute, too."

"It would do you no good to get attached," Moira warned warily, detecting the fondness in his eyes, "They can't stay here."

He ignored the advice, eyes pleading further. "So can I help?"

Moira frowned. The youngest Venturi was the most susceptible, aside from Nora. She might even be their key to getting the family out.

"Fine," she said finally, "But you're only staying with the girl, understand? Don't nose around where you don't belong."

He turned as though he was about to leave, and froze when he heard Moira's next warning in a cold whisper, "And if you harm a hair on her head, mark my words, Tate, you will regret it for all eternity."

The boy didn't answer, just forced himself to start moving again, the words shifting uneasily in his head.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure how much he trusted himself anymore, but he was good with Beau and he was good with Addie, when she was alive. Tate swallowed hard, remembering her face. He could be good, really, but nagging _what-if_sbit into him all the same.

-x-x-x-

Despite being wary of Tate's involvement with the McDonald-Venturi family, Moira realized two days later, Marti Venturi _needed _a babysitter. She was constantly going where she shouldn't, and the woman had little patience to deal with her insolence.

She had been too busy worrying about keeping an eye on the lady of the house to consider the risk some of the typically less violent spirits posed.

Nora (the ghost) clearly had not learned her lesson when it came to embracing motherhood and had honed in on Marti the moment she saw her. The girl didn't welcome her quite as warmly as she had with Tate and Moira, and when the woman turned her head, revealing the gaping hole in her head, a blood-curling scream echoed in the house.

Tate was the one to pick her up and take the steps two at a time, hiding her face in his chest, shutting the door behind him. He set her down and she clung to his side, still crying.

"Don't go down there again, okay?" he said, wiping her tears away, trying to push his rage at Nora away, "It's not safe."

Between broken sobs she informed him she was only looking for him. Moira gave him a pointed stare that suggested he should have left her alone from the start.

"Just call for me, Marti, and I'll come find you. Don't go anywhere alone, understand?" Tate murmured, ignoring the silent message from Moira.

She hiccupped, wiping her nose with her sleeve, and nodded.

He smiled at her warmly, though it didn't quite meet his eyes. _When did it ever,_ Moira wondered.

Derek and George came rushing in, so he stepped back, letting them take her. The possession in his eyes worried the maid next to him.

_If they just kept a better eye on her, I wouldn't have to worry so fucking much, this house is full enough of dead kids already, _Tate seethed, trying to keep his breathing steady, trying to ignore the (satisfyingly) violent images in his head, images of blood on the walls and lifeless eyes and—

"What did I say about getting attached?" Moira said idly. He ignored her, eyes watching the family before him.

They watched as used the tears as an excuse to get an ice cream sandwich and the grin that grew on his face was visible even from the corner of her eye.

He shrugged stiffly, wondering if it would be satisfying at all to shut her up, shut up her constant warnings and doubts, if just for a moment, beating her brains in would feel like a sweet release—_Of course it would, but that would ruin everything._

"It's sort of like having Addie back again. I wouldn't let anyone hurt her then and I won't let anyone hurt Marti now," he edged out in a hard voice.

"This has nothing to do with Violet, I'm sure." Moira stated matter-of-factly, and watched his form tense even more at hearing her name, "Whatever the reason, I have more than enough to do, so I'm entrusting you with her care, understood?"

He only nodded, recognizing the shift in their dynamic immediately. She was starting to trust him again. _He couldn't fuck this up. _

Moira sighed and left to speak with the Harmons, but she wasn't sure when she would mention that Tate was going to be a part of their plans yet, if at all.

She could be convinced into giving him another chance out of desperation, but she doubted the others would see it that way, and it put her in a dangerous position. _Still,_ she thought to herself, _things like these had a way of being discovered one way or another._

-x-x-x-

"A woman with a hole in her head?" George echoed, looking at Marti hesitantly.

"Yes." She simply confirmed, taking another bite of her ice cream.

Derek looked as concerned as his father, and the resemblance was uncanny.

"George!" Nora called, beckoning her husband.

"Er, right, doctor's appointment," he murmured to himself, suddenly filled with urgency, "Derek, can you—"

His eldest waved his father away in confirmation. He'd keep an eye on Marti.

"Say, Smarti, why don't you and Daphne join Ed and Liz? They're going to the park."

His sister looked at him and giggled. "Don't be silly, Smerek, Daphne doesn't live here."

Puzzled, he said, "I hear you all the time, talking to her."

She shook her head firmly, wiping her sticky hands on a dish towel, "Not Daphne. Tate."

_Who the fuck was Tate? _He thought.

"Okay, Tate, then," Derek said finally, not sure what to make of his sister's imagination as of late.

She shook her head solemnly, as though he'd told her unicorns weren't real, "He can't. He stays here," she said softly.

When Lizzie and Edwin left, Marti between them, Derek watched them until they disappeared around the corner, frowning.

Maybe she was just embellishing, acting out a little. Because they'd moved. Kids did that, right?

-x-x-x-

The park nearby was a place Lizzie, Edwin, or Marti had the chance to explore yet. It held a large play space with a climbing gym, swings, slides, and a few basketball hoops, among other things. Off to the left was a wooded area that seemed to go for miles to Lizzie, a place she wanted to explore immediately.

Marti, however, had other ideas, and cajoled Edwin into pushing her on the swing. Lizzie caught his eye, motioned to the trees beside her, and he nodded, calling, "Don't go too far, Liz."

She rolled her eyes and disappeared, following a worn foot path that seemed designed for joggers. Birds chirped in the air and the sound of mosquitoes reverberated in the air, very much giving the area a sense of life.

After walking for a few minutes, she found herself at a trickling creek, where a bridge had been built, and she paused to kneel at the water, spying tadpoles. Nearby, a loud, nasally cry, almost like the sound of an infant crying, caught her off guard and caused her to jump. She whirled around, nearly toppling into the stream.

Catching herself, she heard the croak again, and pushed through some bushes to locate the sound. Following the stream allowed her to spy what appeared to be a large toad, with dark green spots and a light yellow stripe down its back. Its skin shined in the light and Lizzie recognized it immediately, it was a Fowler's Toad, known for the sound it made. It struggled, clearly panicked, against the restraints of a pair of hands.

What she didn't recognize were the two boys in front of her, no older than six, one blonde and one ebony-haired, wearing shirts that appeared to reference some sort of camp. Their backs were to her and she couldn't make out any other defining features.

"…_it's true, I saw it on TV, if you drop something on them, they'll blow up. Guts everywhere. It's wicked," _the blonde said in an oddly squeaky voice, and his friend looked awed.

He held a rock in his hand and told his counterpart, _"Hold it down, then, I wanna see if I can get its brains out first," _and moved the rock down as fast as he could.

Lizzie remained frozen in her spot, somehow unable to call out, watched as the rock slammed down onto the side of the toad's face, blood leaking out of its eyes and nose, movements stilled, but it was still breathing.

The boy rose his arms up in the air again and the girl snapped out of her daze, seeing red, roaring, _"Who the hell do you think you are?" _which effectively caused the children to turn and look at her, wide-eyed.

She may have been a girl, but she was still at least a foot taller than them, and, as Edwin could contest, had no problem holding her own in a fight. The fact that these were kids nearly ten years her junior didn't seem as much of a moral qualm as it usually would be.

_Camp Greenwood _was stitched onto their shirts_, _Lizzie noted darkly, and she caught their names—Mallory was the blonde and Devin was the darker-haired boy.

The two boys looked at each other, appearing to share similar ideas on the best course of action, and bolted. In the distance, Lizzie saw a woman walking toward them with a frown.

The dark-haired boy tossed one final look at the angry girl behind him before ensuring his safety with who she assumed was a camp counselor.

Brushing aside one angry tear, she knelt down to the ground, where the toad hadn't moved for a few minutes. Scooping up its limp body, she hoped to find some sign of life, but the hope quickly disappeared.

"I'll get them for you," Lizzie whispered darkly, her lips thinning, "I will."

Setting the toad back gently, her fingers clawed at the damp earth beneath, the chill of the ground making her skin prickle, but she ignored it. She could only manage digging for fifteen minutes as the dirt begin digging into her fingernails and scraped her hands, making them bleed.

The effort barely resulted in a hole deeper than seven inches, but Lizzie hoped it would be enough. She set the toad inside and gently covered it up with the soft earth, packing moss at the top with a clawed hand, the skin streaked with a mixture of dirt and blood.

Narrowing her eyes, she rose to her feet, eyeing the direction the boys went in, and began sprinting.

The path led her to a field that appeared to be connected to the park, if its volleyball net and picnic tables were any indication. Spying the familiar bright green t-shirts that the boys wore, among a group of kids laughing as they ate lunch on the ground, food wrappers and bags slowly inching away as a breeze began to pick up.

The sky was darkening, as though a storm was approaching. Ignoring it, she wiped her hands on her shorts and continued forward.

A camp counselor took note of her presence and stopped her. She had dark hair, tanned skin, and looked like a college student. Lizzie noted the wide smile, concerned gaze, and smiled back tightly.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked, after Lizzie offered no explanation for her presence, "This area is for campers only today."

"I'm a volunteer for the preserve here," Lizzie lied, "for my school project, and I need to speak to the head counselor."

A blonde man, older than the girl who had walked up to her, overheard and said, "I'm the head counselor. How can I help you?"

"I witnessed two boys torturing and killing an animal on the premises. Do you have two campers by the names of Mallory and Devin?" asked Lizzie, who narrowed her eyes at the blonde head of one of the campers, "Or is there another camp around here?"

The man seemed taken aback by her authoritative tone, but relented. "Yes, are you telling me you saw two of _our _campers do this?"

He didn't seem like he believed her, like he was going to dismiss the case entirely, until he asked for the names. Lizzie repeated them and a flicker of recognition appeared on his face.

The female counselor, at his request, retrieved Mallory and Devin. The blonde boy glared at her, apparently not afraid, though the same could not be said for the darker-haired boy, who gazed up at her fearfully.

"Mallory did it! We're sorry!" said Devin, who immediately burst into tears, and the head counselor frowned. "Mallory. Why am I not surprised?" he sighed, shaking his head, and looked at Lizzie, "Thank you. We'll be sure to take this up with their mothers."

With that response, Lizzie supposed there was nothing else she could do, though Mallory seemed especially petulant and still unrepentant at the head counselor's words. She began walking back, knowing she had been gone far too long already. She retraced her steps through the woods, pausing at the clump of earth where the toad was buried, and tried to push the incident out of her mind.

It was beginning to rain when she finally joined her stepsiblings, where she accompanied them home in silence, curling her stinging hands in an attempt to hide them.

Somewhere in the depths of the forest, as the earth gratefully welcomed the rainwater, a toad dug its way out beneath dirt tinged with the taste of iron, letting out a familiar cry before disappearing into the stream nearby.

-x-x-x-

_A/N: Like I said, there will be references to season three and I think this chapter made it obvious, but I will avoid spoilers. If that changes I'll make a mention of it._

_This should have been uploaded before chapter two but I wrote these out of order. Sorry for any confusion, I'll make a point of following the outline I have at the moment._

_Reviews would be greatly appreciated!_

_-Remi_


	3. Aftermath

During the first few months of the freakshow that is his life (_even more so now with Violet actually spending time with her parents and pretending like things are good_great_wonderful like the sadness in her eyes and the long red slashes on her arms when her sleeves ride up are not visible)_ after what he terms as The Post-Harmon-Family Era, or when he is feeling especially bitter, The-Era-My-Name-Becomes-"Go Away" (by practically everyone except Moira and that psychotic bitch Hayden)

Tate spends most of his time in the attic or the basement because those are the places Violet frequents less. She has the uncanny ability to feel his eyes on her and sometimes it's entirely accidental, but he's long given up on making that point.

He does not deny that just seeing her causes something cold and black to rip into his chest and coil around his spine and the sheer _agony _makes his face crumple and tears well up and whimper out a familiar phrase.

For a while, the first words out of his mouth were always, "_I love you," _or _"I'm sorry," _or just simply, "Vi, _please."_

But she looked at him with a dark, feral hatred he knows she channels when she has to a new tenant out of the house, and snarled, "Go away,"

—then it evolved into a cool, detached dismissal, as though he was nothing but a minor annoyance, as though she had forgotten him

_She stops saying his name when she dismisses him and this makes him forget how to breathe and perhaps it is ironic that this even affects him that way, not really needing breath, but he needs Violet like lungs need oxygen_

And eventually he can't handle the way she says those words so he does it less, watches her from the shadows more, and at first he thinks she just can't see him.

Like the time he was watching some soap on the TV with one of the tenants (he can't recall which one it was now because they never stay long enough) and she walks in, that familiar mask of coolness on her face (it isn't reserved for him, he realizes, it's reserved for everyone)

A book in her hand, and flicked her golden eyes to his, sending an icy chill through him, apparently having felt his presence before she even saw him.

He realizes then she's trying to ignore him _but he just won't go away. _

She doesn't understand that there's more twisted incoherence about the house than they know, that there's figurative walls and planes and fuck knows what else all tying them together, that if she really wanted to shut him out, she could.

But she doesn't, not exactly.

Some part of her is still afraid, despite the defiant way she juts out her chin and the fire smolders in her eyes when she tries to pretend she isn't.

(He's seen that look countless times)

The whole idea of imagined ideals and shutting things out occur literally here, in some ways.

It's what he's managed to deduce, at least, given the fact that he doesn't have bullet holes in his body even now, after remembering it all.

But he can't forget what he's done and he can't forget what he is and he can't forget that Violet is everywhere and nowhere and he will always mean what he said.

He sleeps in the attic long after Violet's body is gone and buried, Moira giving him _that look _that he's grown far too acquainted with.

_He snaps at her and buries her himself with tenderness and care and sits there on the fresh dirt like somehow it will fix things, face buried in his hands and hair _

_He isn't sure if Violet sees but he hopes so_

-x-x-x-

If there's one thing Violet can say about her father, it's that his ability to remain ignorant of his own hypocrisy and spout off unsolicited advice at the most unwelcome of times (there is never a welcome time) is a trait that makes her want to spit in his face.

If she has to hear one more time about how she needs to deal with her feelings in a healthier way, that tearing her own shell of being (what does it matter she's fucking dead) and tearing at Hayden's flesh to the point where she's blinded and maybe she cut out her tongue once—

(because that pointy-smiled cunt won't stop throwing herself at nearly anyone with a dick in this house and _again, what does it fucking matter, they are dead the rules of the mortal society do not apply)_

—are not effective ways of _dealing with What Happened,_ she swears she won't be able to stop herself.

There is also the simple fact that there isn't much to say to someone who still loves someone who also happens to be (a psychopath - a murderer - a rapist; take your pick, she doesn't care what the adjectives are, but the words are heavy in her throat and make her want to heave)

Her mother takes a softer approach, one that oozes concern and rather than finding it grating, it only hurts (she can deal with her father's rages; she can't deal with her mother's unconditional love because it's easier to fight when someone is fighting back).

Vivien has always said she was wary of the mother-daughter bonding fostered by a ridiculous amount of touching and hugging because she was too busy learning to crawl and walk and run.

_Precocious _was a popular term her grade school used to describe her and everyone knew that was a bullshit term that really meant _too smart for her own good. _

There is a white-hot rage inside of her that simply will not ebb away and rather than her father's preferred method of _talking _about things; she feels like tearing away at things_people_. So she does.

And perhaps the worst part of it all is that she now understands, to an extent, why Tate is the way he is.

"Violet," he edges out harshly past his teeth as he breaks the rules again and shows up, as she seeks Hayden for a third time, bat in her hand and intent aglow in her eyes, "Stop, this isn't you."

She ignores him (why she doesn't swing at _him _is a question she will only visit at 2 am with the aid of a fresh pack of cigarettes and her ipod) and opens her mouth to dismiss him before he cuts her to it, ripping the bat from her hands and shoving her against the wall, breathing heavily, the dark in his eyes brighter, stronger, the thrill within them slicing through her like a sword.

There is a dark to him she doesn't think she could ever reach.

"Give it back," she hisses, all ice and malice now, "Now."

Tate leans in close, lips barely brushing her skin, and whispers, _"Make me, Vi." _

And she lunges.

-x-x-x-

Tate has a theory that everyone has a void inside of them, something that have to fill, before it swallows them whole.

Some people get lucky and can channel it through something that isn't the perverse desire to cause a trail of destruction.

He wasn't lucky.

Contrarily to what some thought, he wasn't born with the desire to one day shoot up an entire school and set people aflame.

Nor did he wake up one day wanting to.

It started with curiosity.

He'd read the case studies on serial killers and kids that kill and all of the clichéd bullshit that followed such analyses.

It would be a lie to say that he didn't understand their motivation.

That didn't scare him, so much, and then he started reading about different torture techniques and slaughter techniques and his perspective widened. People were animals too, weren't they?

Some people weren't worth the breath they wasted.

He knew he hated his mother, and he hated Hugo, and hate began to consume him until he started wondering _what if what if what if _

What if he just made them go away? What if he made himself go away, just to end the whole sordid mess?

And he remembers sitting on his bed, the coke wearing off, reality setting in, wondering what he had done and did he regret it? (Yes, no, maybe)

Playing God, playing the executioner, was a role of power. For a brief time he saw people reduced to the cattle they were, the fear in their eyes, _and it felt good._

He barely knew most of the people who died, which was just as well. Somewhere along the line he stopped seeing human nature and seeing animal nature.

The thing is, he can't really say for certain when it stopped being a fantasy and became a plan.

He thought it would solve something, though, that much he was sure of. Maybe ease the clashing in his head, the emotions inside him bubbling up, festering, running through his veins. He hated feeling. He hated living. He hated, pure and simple.

But sitting on that bed, he realized his pathetic attempt at retribution, his attempt to dash away to freedom from it all, hadn't gotten him any farther.

_He was cattle like the rest and a brief reprieve to pretend otherwise meant nothing._

It wasn't remorse, exactly. That wouldn't come until later. It was more a bitter realization.

And when the police finally fired, he thought, _this is the right thing._

Until he woke up again.

Sometimes he wondered if he had a soul, and if his sticking around in the Murder House was any indication, it must have meant he did, didn't it?

Killing for Nora had been different. It had a purpose. It had good intentions, gnarled somewhere in the act. He didn't see them as animals then _dying oddly reminds him of the difference _but he desperately wants to Be A Good Boy and maybe this is his ticket.

It wasn't.

Then, Ben and Violet and Vivien came, and he thought, maybe this is it, maybe this will fix things.

Oh, how very wrong he was.

Falling in love wasn't a fix, not the one he wanted.

It reminded him his dead little heart wasn't so dead after all and how much he had fucked it all up and sometimes he hated Violet for loving him.

But most of all, he hated himself for the craving and the need and the clashing in his head.

He loved her, but he was a (murderer psychopath rapist monster) and loving anyone should have been impossible.

But it wasn't.

That's the most confusing part of it all, really. He has a heart stitched together by parts that Violet makes skip a beat and thrum (happily?) and then there's the parts that beat for an entirely different reason, the parts that make his blood rush when he watches the light from a person's eyes leave.

How those two parts can coexist is a mystery he doesn't think he will solve.

(_Though he remembers one of those case studies describing killing as a symbolic act to kill the parts that _feel _and thinks maybe that's not so far off)_

-x-x-x-

Violet looks paler than usual, if that's possible. She has a hand to her mouth and glassy eyes and a sound escapes her throat that makes him want to hold her, but he sees the knife drenched in red and reconsiders.

He blinks and realizes he's looking up at her, having crumpled to the floor moments before, because she'd stabbed him with a kitchen knife.

The knife clatters to the floor and she disappears before his eyes.

The world is still a mishmash of colors, wooziness not having fully dissipated, but all he can think is _Ben, _he has to get to him, to tell him what happened, to tell him to check on her because he can't.

_Oh how the tables have turned. _

Then he shakes his head, rising to his feet. No, not Ben. Ben wouldn't believe him.

Moira has this ability to show up without him having to search for her. He wonders if he can read his mind sometimes (_and sincerely hopes not_).

She doesn't treat him with much more than cool contempt, but an ally is an ally in this house.

"It's not her fault," he manages, and she stares at him with a look that implies he is stating the obvious.

"I wondered when she would get around to that," she answers, kneeling to peer at his chest for a moment before taking the knife and rinsing it off, "I'll tend to her."

Looking at him silently again for a moment, taking in the bat in his hands, he wonders if she thinks he would…

"Give me that. I'll find some place for it too," she says finally, realizing asking him to do such a thing was a poor idea.

He releases the bat without a word.

"You should go on, find somewhere else to be. Give that girl some space."

Tate swallows hard, trying to ignore the tears that prick his eyelids. "Thank you."

"It's not for you," Moira says, anger seeping into her usually clipped tone, "There are consequences you must face."

Dress swishing as she walks away, Tate closes his eyes again.

A foolish part of him feels hopeful.

x-x-x

_Just an FYI: _

_AHS characters are hard to keep in-character I've found. For some characters (e.g., Moira and Billie Dean) will reflect traits of their S3 characters (Myrtle and Delia, respectively) but seeing S3 is not necessary to understand the story (nor will there contain any spoilers)._

_The story will switch between settings like this occasionally to give better background and such, but this will still be a crossover._

_Titles referring to the days of summer will (likely) be LWD-based (including the crossover chapters)_

_Titles not referring to summer likely be AHS-based because the chapters refer to occurrences before the LWD plot sets in_


	4. The Fifth Day of Summer

Before the fifth day of summer occurs, Derek is lounging on the couch, sifting through a magazine, barely registering the images. He is too aware of how wrong everything is, the way the wall with the nicks marking Marti and Edwim and Derek's heights through the years is missing, the way the kitchen doesn't remind him of pancakes when he walks in, the way the dining room is too large, imposing space between everyone as they chatter over the third day of take-out.

He hates the way the stairs have that little nook, a corner he finds himself in too many times before peering up to see the door marked C-a-s-e-y and the door next to hers no longer leading to his own room, filled with the scent of that fresh-out-of-the-box smell, walls decorated with whimsical-looking giraffes and elephants and lions. In the center is not his bed, it has bars and blankets with the phrase _It's a boy!_ like he needs reminding. There's a little nook for a rocking chair, something he sees Nora use far too much when she's murmuring softly at the infant in her arms.

Nora and George took the master next to the baby's, so they can attend to him when they need to. It comes with its own bathroom and Nora just about had a heart attack at the sight, one hand splayed against her chest.

He hates the way his own room is at the far end of the hall, with walls too bright, the window in the opposite corner from his bed; the way everything he owns seems to fit better than it did before. Space is everywhere and he doesn't remember when he hated having it.

But most of all, he hates that there's two rooms and then some between him and Casey, because fighting with her is nothing like it used to be; she can't whip around the wall between them anymore and barge in and shriek about his music or whatever drama it is that's causing her meltdown that day.

Casey is pleased, she says, because she's closer to the bathroom and she gets it first every time. Derek rolls her eyes at her because it's not like it's much of a contest anymore, it's just her and him sharing it now.

It doesn't remind him of the fights they used to have, the way she shoved forward and snarled, pressing him against the floor, fire in her eyes. The way she managed to forget that she was on the bathroom floor with germs and god-knows-what-else because all she saw was him, and that smirk, and the way it pissed her off far more than it should have.

The bathroom now reminds him too much of what could've been, what should've been, his-and-hers, toothbrushes sharing the same cup, towels sharing the same rack, her prissy girly crap constantly knocking against his own, crowding the shelf.

That's the way it should have been. Her crowding him, space nonexistent, his neck too close to her lips and her hands curling into his shoulders.

Ed and Lizzie took the bedrooms and the bathroom on the main floor, with Marti. They had a new responsibility, to watch her and trip over the toys she leaves laying around (_Derek is not all that okay with this change either_) because with a-baby-on-the-way everyone needs to band_pull _together. It's a condition that didn't seem to bother them all too much even though they made the necessary cries of protest, because they have their own space now, and Derek wonders, sometimes, why they're so okay with it.

_Maybe because they know they have free rein and if there's anyone who would love this wretched space more than the Space-Case herself, it's them, knowing they don't have to get stuck between the bickering and the heated stares that only Derek and Casey communicate in._

The attic has replaced the games closet and it's Marti's favorite place now, because she can leave her fort up and never take it down, lost in her world of imagination. Lizzie and Ed store their projects there, taking delight in the way that they can sneak the forbidden in, their walkie-talkies and hidden cameras and nosiness.

He hears them whispering constantly, peering over large blueprints, pretending the expanse of space is hiding a treasure, something only they can find, and it seems like they're not quite teenagers yet, the stories in their heads holding a promise that somehow still seems believable.

They have their own language, a connection untainted by years of pranks and _I-can't-believe-you-De-rek _and he supposes it shouldn't surprise him that space makes them closer rather than pulling them apart.

He watches as Edwin settles easily into the new routine of matching Lizzie's steps up into the attic, holding Marti's hand as she follows, saying, _"I can do it myself, _Edwin,_" _but she never quite lets go of his fingers anyway, her running footsteps filling the silence above him.

For the first time he can remember, Derek finds himself jealous of his brother.

-x-x-x-

When Nora goes into labor, he and Casey are expected to take over (_it does not escape him that this mother-father routine they play is eerily close to the real thing_), George hurriedly repeating everything on the list of The Plan that Derek's certain Casey's memorized by now. She watches them leave with a look he can only describe as pure joy mixed with trepidation, _what-if_s presumably running through her head.

It's only the fifth day in the new house, and not everything has been unpacked yet

(_George runs in and out, scattered and panicked, asking the same questions over and over to make sure things are okay before dashing out again_

_They paid for a cushy suite and Derek suspects they stayed longer on purpose because it was easier than dealing with all of them at once_)

He thinks it was foolish to buy a house so close to her due date anyway, and says so in the most sarcastic tone he can manage, which makes Casey snap out of her cleaning-mode briefly to glare at him.

"The least you could do is help unpack the dishes in the kitchen," she says snottily, "not sit around and be a jerk,"

But he doesn't do a damn thing and Casey expects that so she mostly ignores whatever barb he tosses her way.

Halfway into day two of Nora's absence, George calls, sounding exhausted but happy, telling them to come visit and see _their_his_her _new brother.

Casey is a bundle of nerves then, herding the three youngest kids out the door, whirling around for the keys, oblivious to Derek standing at the steps with a smirk, keys hooked on his index finger.

When she hears the familiar rumble of the Prince starting, she storms out, slamming the door behind him, screeching, _"De-rek!" _like old times and god he's missed that.

Edwin, Lizzie, and Marti all pile up in the backseat, Casey standing at the driver's side window, "I want to drive, move over,"

He raises an eyebrow at her. "You're in no state to drive, Spacey. Get in the passenger seat or I'll leave without you."

She leans in close, teeth glinting as her face contorted into a snarl, "You wouldn't dare," she's wearing a tank top and the sun gleams, hitting her skin in a way that makes it look oddly delicious, "How can you possibly make this about you right now?"

"Just get in!" Lizzie interrupts, rolling her eyes, and Casey tosses her a stare of betrayal but doesn't argue, getting into the passenger seat with a glare. The seat burns her legs, but she ignores it in favor of fumbling with her seatbelt, hands shaking.

Derek sighs witheringly, as though she is hopeless and he finds this irritating. Clasping his hand over hers to pull the belt further, until she feels it click beneath her fingers, he doesn't seem to find that a reason to pull his hand away.

She swallows hard and tears from his grip, her eyes softening, shifting to a spot on the dashboard that is not at all interesting, but she sure makes it seem like there's some hidden puzzle there.

Robbie also happens to be born during traffic hour, and this is foreshadowing for future chaos even Derek picks up on.

The air conditioner doesn't work so everyone is roasting, irritable, nerves besting even the more patient of them (Lizzie) and causing a meltdown in the least sane of the group (Casey). Derek thinks she's glad she has something to complain about because pretending (_glaring at_) that spot on the dash like it was the answer to all the secrets in the universe would have been a difficult feat to pull off.

"_Look behind you before you switch lanes!" _Casey screeches, and he maintains his preferred tactic of weaving around cars, ignoring her incessant chatter about safety risks.

If there is a time to drive recklessly, he thinks, it is when your stepsister is too close for comfort and reminding you of the way things used to be.

When he finally arrives at the hospital, he skips the parking lot, idling beside the entrance instead, muttering sharply, "Get out, I'll deal with the car,"

Casey shoots him a look of disapproval but says thanks anyway and he waits until she disappears behind the hospital doors.

The truth was, he had no intention of finding a place to park. The mere idea of seeing Casey holding _his_her_their _brother is something he cannot stomach for reasons he chooses not to dredge up from the back of his mind.

So he leaves, and finds the silence, the pretense of running away from it all soothing.

His cell phone had been ringing nonstop for about fifteen minutes half an hour into his rather poor decision to simply _up and leave _but he turns it off and continues, weaving through cars again, Casey's comments echoing in his mind as he does so.

He drives and drives, chasing the sun, watching as it slips further and further past the horizon, as the traffic dissipates and soon he is on a road he doesn't recognize, alone, the tinge of oranges and reds in the sky disappearing into purple darkness.

When he sees the first scatter of stars show up in the sky, he turns on his phone again, missed calls in double digits, all from Casey, none from his father.

Derek deducts from this that she hasn't told them the truth, that he was supposed to be right behind them, coming up any minute, and something painful wrenches in his chest at the thought. It isn't for him, the lie is protecting everyone else (_and her_), he knows well enough.

The drive back to the hospital is interrupted by a brief stop at a grimy gas station where he buys a carton of cigarettes, a pack of Reese's Cups for Nora, and fills up the tank.

The hospital parking lot is still mostly full, something that doesn't really surprise him, and he finds a spot in the back, the walk to the entrance feeling like a mile long, the road to something he doesn't want to be real.

Hospitals are not his thing, Derek thinks, they always have that veil between mortality and nothingness and it's never something that's sat quite right with him, no matter how many cheery stock images the hospital staff puts up.

In the stairwell, he somehow has reception and Casey's name shows up on the cell phone screen, and he supposes he should finally answer before she calls the cops on him.

"Case," he responds in lieu of a greeting, ignoring the slip (_again_) "you can stop calling, I'll be there in a few," and then he hangs up, but not before she hears him strangle his name into two syllables again.

He finds his way to the third floor and he sees Casey in the hallway before she sees him, arms crossed, _brimming _with rage, the scary-Casey kind, and he thinks to himself that he should probably avoid detection.

But this is all thwarted when the door shuts behind him loudly, causing her to whirl around, her eyes pinning to his own, defying her Klutzilla-ness and bridging the space between them in a span of time he thinks should be physically impossible.

"_Where have you been," _she manages to whisper icily instead of roaring it, the suppression of the urge apparently causing the trembling emanating from her body, _"You're lucky I decided to spin a lie about you coming in later, Derek, because I swear to_ _god—"_

Derek backs up, the handle of the door digging into his lower back, hands up in protest, "Chill, Spacey," he says in that lazy way he knows she hates, "I'm here now."

-x-x-x-

The way Casey appears to want it all to go is predictably not the way Derek chooses to let it. This has been carved into stone by now, from the first time she met him (_she chooses not to think about the fact that it was a date_) until the day _her_his_their _brother enters the world, a screaming bundle of wrinkly skin with her eyes and his hair.

Derek must be a mind reader (_it's obvious on her face_) because he swoops in, cocky grin on his face, handing Nora the packet of candy like it's the keys to a new car and steps back quickly from the tiny thing in her arms.

George and Nora are out of it, it's the only explanation for their apparent ignorance to his behavior, his abrupt and obvious refusal to have anything to do with the infant he's supposed to be visiting.

So Casey nudges him (_it's almost a body check_) forward and Nora looks up at him with hazy eyes and she murmurs, full of that weird hormonal maternal glee (_blindness_) all women must have, "_Isn't he beautiful?"_

Derek can say with certainty that he is not beautiful. The baby looks more like a wrinkled little rodent, a naked mole rat, and he thinks that if things were different (_if this wasn't Casey's brother too_) he'd find his own nickname for him.

But eventually the eyes on him goad him into sighing and letting Nora put him in the crook of his arms and it is beyond creepy to see Casey's eyes look up at him with the tuft of reddish brown hair like his own.

The baby regards him only for a moment before closing them again, twisting his lips sleepily, a sort-of-smirk, and he hears Casey whisper, _"He looks like you," _and that is all he can take.

"I think he wants his mum," Derek says, panic in his eyes, aware of Casey's confusion, and Nora takes him back, thanking him for visiting and for the candy.

Somehow Nora is aware that her daughter was lying, he is pretty sure, and that just makes him back away more, forcing a smile.

There are too many people in the room anyway so he thinks fast, offering to buy George something from the cafeteria, who asks for whatever looks good and that is the escape he needs _thank you thank you thank you _he thinks.

He saunters out of the room, in that overconfident, floaty way, and all but lets the false cheer fall around him when he's out of sight, sighing heavily, but of course he can't get a minute alone because Casey's hot on his heels, pressing her shoulder against his like they're in the corridors of school.

"What is _with _you?" she snaps, and he realizes she really hasn't noticed a damn thing until now.

"Pardon me for not getting weepy at the sight of a poop machine," he snarks, crossing his arms as they walk, the movement causing his shoulder to brush against hers again.

"Marti was that way once and George has told me _all _the stories," she pointed out, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I just don't like babies," he lies, "Marti was the exception because she's Smarti and she just grows on you. I didn't like her at first either," he pauses, "Don't tell her I said that."

This false admission of truth makes her back off, placating her, at least for the moment. They find themselves facing the cafeteria with the wan-faced employees and wilting salads, day-old sandwiches, and he turns around.

"Where are you going?" She asks, accusingly, curling a hand around his arm.

"My dad said get him what looks good. This ain't it. There's a New York Fries a few blocks down, though, I think the man needs poutine after a day like this."

She doesn't respond to this and just keeps following him, and when he shoots her a playful look of irritation, she only says snootily, "Someone has to keep you in line and make sure you come back."

"I'm still driving," he responds, hiding his grin with a smirk.

"If I die and you live, I'll haunt you forever," she says.

He rolls his eyes. "I'll kill myself to spite you."

A large, scowling nurse with dark hair parted into French braids, wearing an oddly dated uniform with the name tag with _Angie_ spelt in large black letters, overhears and shoots him a look of warning but he ignores it.

"Not if I do it first," she retorts after they're out of the hospital, crossing her arms out of an unexpected chill in the air.

He laughs, abruptly, leaving the hospital feeling decidedly freeing, and says nothing, pausing to shrug off his jacket and give it to her. She shoots him another look of confusion.

"Take it or leave it," he chooses not to mention that she's wearing a tank top and it's very distracting (_because he's not supposed to be_), "I don't want to listen to you whine to Nora about how I let you freeze half to death," he finishes lamely.

She takes it, wrapping it around herself, and then they're back to bickering about why he gets to drive again and why she always has to listen to his music like nothing happened.

(_The spell is quickly broken when they return to the overly-cheery corridor with their brother)_

It's one of the last times, he recalls faintly, that they are simply Derek-and-Casey.

-x-x-x-

_A/N: Okay, I lied about the updating part, I am way too in love with this idea. _

_This is officially AU, people. Get ready, because I've got a ton of ideas for a lot of the AHR cast._

_For those who read the first chapter when it was first posted: I just managed to find out what the baby's name was announced as and have revised chapter one to reflect that._

_Reviews make my day so if you have the time, please do, and thanks for reading!_

_-R._


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